We begin this piece with a true episode in the life of Morton, a personal acquaintance from long ago, whose last name will be withheld, except to mention its being Hebrew by nature.
Mort was a Jewish lad who grew up in a semi-remote Nebraska location, where his faith had a very sparse membership at the time, which may not have changed since. He once explained how his family needed to travel a great many miles to and from the nearest temple for religious ceremony attendance.
Upon graduation from the University of Nebraska law school in the early 1950s, Mort underwent various interviews with prospective employers. Having expressed a desire to work in an eastward city, he accepted a position offered by the Cleveland, Ohio office of a major professional services firm.
After taking up his new job, Mort, already married and with an expectant wife, was anxious to settle down in a permanent home. He promptly contacted a real estate agent on Cleveland’s multi-national east side, and soon found a house which he and his missus liked very much. Accordingly, he filed a formal offer and plunked down the requisite deposit.
Having heard nothing from the agent for several days, Mort phoned him to check on the status of his intended deal.
The answer came in a somewhat stumbling tone, well punctuated by umms, ahs, and ers where needed.
“You ….. er ….. won’t be able to buy that house, Morton.”
“Oh!” Our hero quickly chimed back, “Don’t worry. I’m ready to come up a little.”
“Well ….. umm ….. ahh ….. that is, the owner refuses to sell to you.”
“Why?” inquired the young Jewish boy recently out of Nebraska.
“It’s ….. er ….. because of your religion.”
Poor Mort’s immediate reaction was to ask “What does that have to do with it?”
In pretty short order then, Morton learned that Cleveland, Ohio was not Nebraska, insofar as intolerance went.
Nevertheless, this part of our tale has a happy ending, since Mort did eventually acquire a nice house for his budding family.
We’ve long dwelled on that baptism of fire experienced by Brother Morton. One unfortunate aspect is that it recalls the general spirit of this writer’s own Cleveland, Ohio upbringing, in the most bigoted of household surroundings. The best means we can find for summing up such situation is to relate it to Shakespeare’s classic drama Julius Caesar, Act II, Scene III.
Being fully cognizant of the plot to assassinate Caesar on that fateful morning, the minor character Artimedorus had prepared a written message to hand to the imminent victim as he passed by, which amounted to a dire warning about the conspiratorial band.
We’ve thus chosen below to alter the Bard’s words slightly, in conformity with the lessons given regularly and frequently to this growing lad.
Robert, beware of Jews,
Take heed of Catholics,
Come not near Negroes,
Have an eye to American Indians,
Trust not Italians,
Mark well Eastern Europeans;
Latinos love you not;
Thou hast wronged Orientals.
Although a fearless Caesar arbitrarily brushed Artimedorus aside, it took this fellow a few years to outgrow the hatreds ingrained in him as a boy. For that and other reasons, it’s been nice to have escaped from Cleveland.
We can’t resist adding that, despite such atrocious childhood indoctrination, this writer’s closest friends during his (ugh! ptui!) U.S. Army days were Tom Donegan, Milton Feldman, and Phil Daniele.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment